


you're not a stranger

by limerental



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood of Elves canon divergence, F/M, Jealous Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Kaer Morhen, M/M, Minor Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, POV Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Purple Prose, Sharing a Bed, Yennefer & Dandelion go to Kaer Morhen instead of Triss, intentionally to imititate sapkowski lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:53:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23633407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limerental/pseuds/limerental
Summary: Sharing a meal, Yennefer had told the poet”I know you and like you”, and expressed that strange affection as a show of gratitude for keeping Geralt sane and whole on the Path, but that was not the extent of it, no, not by half.She had grown fond of him, the utter ignoramus, and equal parts curious. Curious whether she could coax more verse from him on the topic of her power, her heart, her strength, her beauty, and curious also, if the swagger he walked with was well-deserved, if he was as well-endowed in terms of his… talent as he professed in song.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 18
Kudos: 141
Collections: Witcher





	you're not a stranger

**Author's Note:**

> this came about purely for a laugh trying to write descriptions of the male characters in the Blood of Elves novel as ridiculously as the women and then the dynamic took over I guess idk! Deliberate attempts were made to imitate the style of the Witcher books

Yennefer tugged at the fingers of her lambskin riding gloves to flex her slender hands, her joints gone stiff with cold during the journey, and eyed the assemblage of witchers that had met them at the gate.

Eskel, the twisted scar across his face marring an otherwise handsome visage. Lambert, a broad, dark man who, unlike the others, had forgone his armor, the width of his shoulders and breadth of his chest straining against his threadbare tunic. Coen, wan and slighter than the rest but no less alluring. And Geralt, who drew her eye most readily, though she did not allow herself to drink as deeply as she felt drawn to. He was a vision in black, studded armor, accentuating the bulk of his shoulders and allowing his waist to look more trim and hips more narrow. His beard had grown to soften the square cut of his jaw, and his white tresses hung limp and unwashed across his face, his sallow eyes regarding her with none of the restraint she showed. Only the oldest witcher did not make an appearance, still held up in the keep.

And, most amusingly, echoing the witchers’ stance, cross-armed with feet planted wide and severe expression sobering her youthful features, stood the little witcher girl.

“Well,” said Dandelion at her shoulder, dismounted from his own gelding and busy rolling his ankles and worrying his aching backside with all the drama of one convinced he was sorely damaged by the arduous and miserable ride. He had complained enough for ten men on the Trail, Yennefer sorely tempted to cast a silencing hex scarcely a league into their travels. Though having him along had meant she could forgo the warming charm she typically cast on her meager travelling tent. The poet, for all his bellyaching on all matters relating to the weather but especially the chill, ran remarkably hot and had not been stingy with sharing said body heat. “Would you strapping lads see fit to be hospitable and let us into your appallingly inhospitable-looking keep? My tits may well have frostbitten by now but can’t hurt to attempt to warm them by your humble hearth all the same.”

“No great loss there, Dandelion,” said Geralt, the fond smile that twitched onto his lips at the sight of his dear friend betraying his jest.

“I’ll have you know, dear witcher, that my tits are the envy of the Continent. Or were, if you lot don’t hurry things on.”

For all Dandelion’s talk of moving indoors out of the cold at once, the witcher and the poet spent a fair few minutes embracing, long enough that the other witchers shifted on their feet and Yennefer coughed pointedly. It really was quite cold.

* * *

The roaring fire in the great hall’s hearth made quick work of melting the stiffness from Yennefer’s outheld hands, and she watched in bemusement as the poet ogled the interior of the keep, the impressive tower of the stone chimney and the cobwebbed rafters high above. For all his gallivanting and cavorting with Geralt, it seemed the witcher had never felt it prudent to allow Dandelion to know the location of the keep. Which was just as well, given the poet’s abysmal ability to stay out of trouble and not run his mouth.

But as Yennefer had seen just a week ago when forced to rescue the troubadour from certain dismemberment at the hands of those seeking the location of Geralt’s ward, his lack of knowledge would do no one any good. The witcher would hate to see Dandelion maimed or worse on his behalf, and so, Yennefer told herself, she was simply doing him a favor.

To say nothing of the strange swell of possessiveness that warmed her nearly as well as the fire did. _Ah yes, Geralt, he may be your dear friend, but who swooped in to rescue him in his distress? Who guaranteed his safety by escorting him on the trail? Who has brought him here, shown him this, a privilege and opportunity he has desired since he was a young man and that you have denied him? Who features in more of his verse of late? Not the white wolf, not as such. No, how had it gone? ‘And in the violet eyes sleep lightning bolts.’ Higher praise than any._

Sharing a meal, Yennefer had told the poet _”I know you and like you”_ , and explained that strange affection as a show of gratitude for keeping Geralt sane and whole on the Path, but that was not the extent of it, no, not by half.

She had grown fond of him, the utter ignoramus, and equal parts curious. Curious whether she could coax more verse from him on the topic of her power, her heart, her strength, her beauty, and curious also, if the swagger he walked with was well-deserved, if he was as well-endowed in terms of his… talent as he professed in song.

She felt no shame in admitting this to herself. To know it and to pursue it were different animals, and she had been content to allow the curiosity to peter out unexplored.

Had been, that was, until as she warmed herself by the fire, she saw from the corner of her eye where the company settled around the table, Geralt’s hand settle surreptitiously on the poet’s thigh and then higher, clearly intent on warming him in a different sense.

The possessive spark burned in her breast. She had not endured Dandelion’s harping and groaning throughout the long journey only to be usurped by the witcher. _Who had swept in to save him from certain death as he hung tied as a helpless damsel? Not Geralt, no!_ Dandelion would be in the gutter somewhere without her, and yet, the witcher had the audacity to not even look her way as he pressed his lips close to the poet’s jaw to whisper something.

Yennefer turned her gaze back to the fire, steadfastly focused on the warmth that seeped along her hands and face rather than that which pooled in her belly.

When she looked back again, Geralt and Dandelion had gone, disappearing into the depths of the keep.

She turned in not long after, the remaining witchers helping her to drag up a worn mattress into one of the crumbling towers and leaving her be. The promise of a tower all to herself and a place to sleep off the cold ground did not enthuse her as much as it may have otherwise. She lay in the dark awake a long while, straining her ears to hear anything but the scratching of rats and the howl of the wind.

Laughter, perhaps, or the flutter of lute music.

She slipped into sleep imagining it, pretending the possessive warmth was only anger at being outdone, the heat not arousal or jealousy but a remnant from the hearth. Nevermind that the air in her tower was still and cold. It had simply been the fire, nothing more.

* * *

Some time later, she was woken to the darkness still full around her and the sound of the heavy, wooden door opening.

“Yennefer?” came Dandelion’s voice. “Are you sleeping?”

“That’s generally what one does at night while lying in dark rooms, yes,” she said, shuffling to sit up. “But I’m awake now. Obviously.”

“Ah, sorry, sorry,” said the poet. She could see him only as a silhouette in the open doorway, whispered something so that the candle set on the floor beside the bed flickered to life. Their shadows leapt across the stone walls.

“What are you doing here, Dandelion?”

“You were gone when I returned to the hall. The rest were well into their cups and said they’d already brought up the one bed for you, weren’t hauling up another so I could sleep on the bench by the fire or go find you. So here I am.”

“Geralt not willing to let you warm his bed?”

The flickering candleflame illuminated the rosy flush along the poet’s cheekbones. He really was unfairly handsome. His golden curls shining in the dim light, his eyes doe-soft, and his lips more full than she had noticed before. Not a conventional beauty of brawn and sinew of the sort she was usually drawn to but a beauty all the same.

“It’s not like that,” said Dandelion. “We aren’t like that.”

“No? It certainly seemed so in the hall. I know he doesn’t touch all his friends that way.”

The poet closed the door behind him and leaned back against it, shaking his head.

“He snores dreadfully,” Yennefer said and gestured for him to join her in the bed, shifting the blankets back to make room. “You wouldn’t want to share his bed anyway.” He sat on the edge of the mattress to tug off his boots and unlace his doublet, slipping beside her in his bizarrely frilly underthings just as he had in the tent during their travels.

“You snore dreadfully,” Dandelion said, and Yennefer huffed, settling down beside him.

“I do not.”

“Thunderously. Resoundingly. Sonorously.”

“I’ll show you thunderously.”

“Give it an hour, and I’m sure you will.”

“I should have left you in that stinking pigsty where I found you. I should have let them cut out your tongue.”

“Oh but then I couldn’t sing the sweet praises of my gallant rescuer, could I? I know you’re awaiting my retelling of the events with bated breath.”

“You’re composing?” Yennefer asked, then cursed at the eager sound that slipped into her voice. He cracked a knowing grin at her, a look that did nothing to cut the rising swell of attraction she felt for him. His smile dazzled, even in the dim light.

“Oh Yennefer, of course I am, of course.” And he warbled into song as he lay on his back, eyes drifting shut.

He floundered for a while trying to find a rhyme for her name and finally settled on _”the fairest lady yennefer / who snores as though there’s ten of her”_ , and she smacked him hard across the chest. She left her arm there on his breast, fingers twitching a few inches from his throat in case he decided to risk continuing his song.

Except that by consequence, she felt his heartbeat quicken under her palm and, in staring at the line of his throat, saw him swallow sharply. Her eyes flicked up to his, and his pupils shone dark under his lowered lashes. In a rush, the heat that had risen earlier in the hall swelled again in her belly.

“Dandelion,” she said, her voice steady. His eyes caught on her tongue as it flicked out to wet her lips. “I’m going to kiss you now.”

“Ah,” he said, gaze not rising from her mouth. “As good an idea as any.”

“All my ideas are good,” said Yennefer and did not allow him the breath to deny it, stealing it from him with the press of their lips together. She rose to straddle him in the bed, his deft fingers making quick work of the ties at the back of her nightgown, palms spreading across the chilled plane of her back.

Even as she drew away to sidle down his body, intent on uncovering once and for all the true nature of his endowment, he did not deny it, only groaned and arched from the mattress with panting breaths. He sounded as pretty singing her praises in this sense as he had a sennight ago at his performance.

Yes. Yennefer had some very good ideas indeed.

* * *

In the pale light of a frost-laden morning, they walked together down to the great hall. The last to wake for breakfast, there was scarcely room at the table for the both of them, just one spot open at the end of a wooden bench. The witchers sprawled, occupying far more space than need be.

Dandelion hesitated long enough that Yennefer claimed the open seat, and he stood there a moment, considering, before plopping into her lap and slinging his legs across her.

“Ooof, poet, you weigh half a ton,” she said but did not move to shove him off. Bowls of warm gruel were passed down along the table to the both of them. “How is your arse still so bony as much as you eat?”

“My arse is _plump_ , and you know it,” Dandelion said with a wag of his finger.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Geralt watching and deliberately curled her fingers tighter around his upper thigh than need be to keep him from toppling from her lap. She thought they must look ridiculous, Yennefer far too petite beneath the fop of a man who sat across her legs, but she didn’t allow herself to dwell on it.

Dandelion laughed, a clear peal that reverberated against her chest, and she could almost believe she saw Geralt’s expression darken at the sound of it. She was not surprised to find that the possessive heat from the night before had not dissipated. If anything, it deepened under Geralt’s scrutiny.

Yennefer met his gaze unflinchingly, a smirk tugging at her lips, expression that of a cat who got the cream. Geralt frowned, looked away.

Let him frown. If he had wanted the poet, he had certainly had plenty of opportunity to claim him in the past, but now?

May he find some other to trail after him singing songs of his exploits. Yennefer had no intention of sharing the role of muse.

Dandelion’s eyes gleamed as her fingers edged higher up his thigh.

Yes.

She could certainly provide enough inspiration to keep the poet singing her praises for a long, long while.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr [@limerental](http://limerental.tumblr.com) aka the yen/jask smooch zone
> 
> edit: to those who pointed out that their dialogue in this is basically [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wf9FYqkyfIw) it was not intentional but aksjdf;alksdjfsa you right though


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